METEORS
STRIKE AGAIN
Ledger Building Destroyed; Devastation Widespread

As I type these words, an eerie, unsettling silence envelops me as thickly as the night's darkness. The sirens have faded now. The spotlights of rescue choppers can still be seen piercing the horizon, but the shouts of rescuers and rumble of emergency machinery are faint this far out on the edge of town.

It is now eight hours since the unthinkable occurred--again--with almost no warning. Today, Smallville fell victim to its second devastating meteor shower in 16 years.

Thankfully, my dingy abode above the Wild Coyote was spared, as was the bottle of Jameson's that has been my faithful companion for the evening. The same cannot be said for the building that contained the Smallville Ledger. My house is still here; my home is obliterated.

Through a combination of denial and obsession, I made the long walk home this afternoon, swimming upstream past hundreds of fleeing residents. More than a few of my friends grabbed my arm and begged me to join the creeping caravan trying vainly to get out of Smallville before destruction rained from the skies. But where would I go, given three hours' notice of Armageddon? How far could I get? Would it be better to meet my end out on Highway 54 than within my own four walls?

Thanks to the small generator that has gathered dust in my closet for years, I've got some precious time to impart a few observations via my laptop, and if I'm lucky, push this to the site before my screen flickers out, leaving me alone in the dark.

Reporting today's events is pointless. We were there. Anyone reading this doesn't need me to repeat the cold, hard facts that are surely already blaring from CNN and the dozens of other outlets that immediately rushed to Smallville.

Throngs of seniors at Smallville High were celebrating their greatest achievements to date, looking forward to even brighter futures in their bulky caps and gowns as proud parents clapped and looked on, warmly recalling their own glory days. Those not in attendance were engrossed in their workdays, tending farm animals, brewing cappuccinos, proofreading copy for an issue that no one knew would be the last.

We could hear the bullhorns from here, urging everyone to remain calm and, oh yeah, to immediately evacuate a fifty-mile radius because giant flaming space rocks were about to wipe out the area.

My friend George Talmer--not quite "The Streak" he used to be, but still able to hold his own in a footrace--was the first down the stairs. George has been proudly holding the online Ledger's banner high, pretty much single-handedly, since the changeover last year moved the rest of us to other areas of responsibility at the paper, and he deserves our gratitude.

Gena McGuiness followed, no doubt rushing home to collect her infirm husband, John, the financial editor of the Ledger until his retirement three years ago. Ever the pragmatist, Angie Perez persuaded Kathy Romita to drop her society page and vacate the premises, leaving Kathy's beloved little souvenirs and unfinished crafts projects behind. And with the rest of the afternoon crew either out of the structure or on their way, I took a last look around and exited for the last time myself, joining the growing crowds on Main Street as panic gradually began to set in.

No time for hugs and good-byes. No time to gather much from our desks, just a few framed photos and favorite tomes. No time to sing "Tipperary" and shut out the lights with a sad smile and a sentimental tear. My memories of the modest wood-floored rooms where we tried to uphold Silas Kent's legacy will remain populated by the people with whom I was fortunate to work all these years, not by the empty, shadowed chamber I left behind today.

And with the news of the building's destruction, along with large swatches of downtown and the surrounding properties, those memories will be all I have. Farmhouses that have stood for more than a century are nothing but smoldering rubble. The Kawatche caves may never reveal their tantalizing secrets, given their already fragile state before this tragedy. Even the glowering, fortress-like Luthor mansion, a relatively recent addition to our community, is likely to have sustained major damage.

My generator's battery meter is playing editor and warning me to wrap up this indulgent farewell piece or risk having it cut from the issue. It's just as well; I'm below the label on that bottle now, with a long, haunted night ahead of me. Forgive me, dear readers, for any editing gaffes I commit herein--looks like this one's going up raw.

Will the Ledger return? Should I even be so selfish as to entertain such a mundane thought when so many of my friends and loved ones are grappling with much larger troubles tonight? Call me an idealist (the preceding 800 words notwithstanding), but I suspect that we will survive in some form or other. Word will be passed to you where to find us if and when we rise again. For now, I humbly speak on behalf of everyone who put their hearts into this endeavor. Thank you for reading. Goodnight.